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| A Sliver of Wood by � dark_deer In my medicine pouch I carry A sage leaf for cleansing A tobacco tie for healing Motherswort for the gifts of the women And a sliver of wood For the People Louisiana in January My new-found great uncle Conjured by the magic of the internet Points from the car "That?s where my dad died." I get out, wrapping my coat tightly around me Amazed that a forty degree wind Can feel so goddamn cold to a New Englander "Where? Exactly?" Together we walk the long forgotten path Me, hurrying ahead and then stopping to wait Uncle carrying his ninety winters Spryly in spite of himself "There", he points "His bed was on the porch, Cause it was cooler there. We didn't have no air-conditionin'" Then, half-hidden in the woods I see it A once humble structure Family homestead The ruins of a simple farmhouse Long ago collapsed in upon itself I walk toward it. Others have followed from the car. "Go back", I silently implore them "I need to speak to my Grandfather alone" Climbing onto the rotten, lichen-covered remains I touch the place where he last breathed I have no tobacco for offering No cornmeal for thanksgiving Instead, from my head I pluck seven strands of hair And, holding them skyward I pray for the seven generations In return I am gifted a sliver of wood. On the way back, I clutch the sliver tightly in my hand Asking it to yield its secrets Grandfather, Grandfather, Will I ever know the mysteries you took to your grave? Your monument stands tall in that parish cemetery A fitting tribute to the patriarch The bones of your children lie tucked neatly around you One lone survivor now bides his time to join you Next to you lies the woman Who, as a twelve year old girl, Came to you to be your wife Bore you six children Then wept as she lost First her eldest, then you; Learned to survive Shot a deer once and drug it two miles all by herself To feed her family. Remarried and bore more children But in death, returned to spend eternity at your side. In the car, her youngest son Tells of her life. Quite a remarkable woman she was. I clutch the sliver of wood. "She weren?t your Grandma, though" My uncle is speaking to me. "My brother, Ike?s, mom was an Indian." Ike. My grandfather, who passed before I came. My grandfather, born a full thirty years before his baby brother Beside whom I now sit. Whose mixed blood caused my mother to recoil in shame Red-haired, more Irish than Indian, She "passed". So we, her children, "passed" Until we no longer knew From where we came. No one left now to answer my questions No one left now to show me Who was she, this great-grandmother of mine? Who were her people? Did she learn, at her grandmother's knee The stories to tell her children? Did she learn to make frybread? To bead? Did she learn the prayers and the sacred ceremonies? Did she bear the pain of epithets hurled "Redskin" "Dirty Injun" "Squaw" Did she bite her lip and look them in the eye The way that I am learning to face down Those who would call me "Wannabe"? Did she love this man Who took her from her people Whose son she bore Who begat my mother Who bore me? She's gone now, Buried in a long-forgotten grave Her secrets whispered quietly on the wind In a language that I have forgotten how to hear. I say a prayer For all the lost Grandmothers And for all the searching children I say a prayer For Indians who name their children Isaac Who forget the ways of their Grandmothers To follow a new life. In my medicine pouch I carry A sage leaf for cleansing A tobacco tie for healing Motherswort for the gifts of the women And a sliver of wood That pierces to the heart of who I am. � Mel Dark Deer 8/2000 |
